Weihnachten
by Countess of Cobert
Summary: My Cobert Christmas Exchange story. Robert and Cora take a trip to Berlin a month before Christmas, but will all be alright when they return, or is one of them hiding a secret? My prompt was the picture that's the cover. My word was 'embrace'. The title is 'Christmas' in German.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: My prompt was the picture you can see and my word was 'embrace.' I did a little research and found that the picture is from a German postcard commissioned in 1907. The hotel and department store I use in Berlin are real places but any descriptions are entirely mine! The title is 'Christmas' in German. This little story is three chapters long, I hope you enjoy! And Merry Christmas!**

* * *

 **Berlin, Germany. Late November 1907.**

The rustling of skirts so early in the morning was a surprise but also an inconvenience. It meant he kept turning abruptly, his head whipping over his shoulder, eyes searching for the familiar face. She was never there, which is what he wanted.

His thoughts drift back to that morning, leaving her lying, chest rising and falling so calmly, the single curl that lay over her lips blowing upwards at each breath. The covers curved tightly into the swell of her breasts. Her lashes had been so very dark against her snowy skin. The room had been humid, leaving a glisten on her forehead- only very slight but noticeable to him. Her tresses had flopped lazily to one side, the ribbon loose at the end and trailing a bright splash of red onto the white linen. She had looked so very beautiful as he'd leant over and kissed her cheek, stretching slowly from the bed so not to wake her.

Now here he was, the bustle of the Berlin high street a month before Christmas, escalating with increased vigour around him. German words were being yelled across the streets, the accent heavy and hard; gruff. Women had babies swaddled to their bosoms. It was odd he thought, how the classes seemed to be in the very heart of this city. The poor walked beside the rich in these peculiar side streets that were neither posh nor ruined. He could see how it worked though. For the poor the boutiques of the street he was headed for provided the perfect base for pickpockets and the hope of a few extra pennies. For the rich, as in countries everywhere, they ignored the grubby, ill people that lived in squalor just down the alley, focused only on the glories of their own Christmas shop.

Robert felt a deep regret at that. That the world was so inverted, the values of Christmas lost beneath the veil of fancy dinner, Christmas pudding, a few big balls and presents being torn open beneath an oversized tree only to be forgotten as the next was laid before them. He slips a few coins into the hands of the small children, he wouldn't need them once he returned to England in just less than a week.

The department store that is his destination looms into view. And looms was the only way to put it. It sits on the corner, as any good department store does. The facade is huge made entirely of red brick, the whole four stories standing impressively over the people below. The arches provide respite he supposes, in the summer from the stifling heat. But not today, today people flurried like snow towards the swinging doors, desperate for the warmth that was offered within. He could see figures already standing at windows, watching the people below them. One woman was dipping her head every so often as each new hat was placed upon her head, deciding if she liked it. Some came off quickly others she tilted her chin this way and that before she made a decision. Other woman bustled out of the doors holding nothing but a fur muff to warm her hands, a maid trailing behind, struggling with doors as she attempted to keep hold of the multitude of hat boxes and bags. Robert took a second to imagine Cora like that, but he couldn't, she was always considerate, if not far too considerate, of how life was for O'Brien.

He flips the fob of his watch open as he strides inside, how quickly could he find what he wanted, purchase it and be back to Cora? Half and hour, he hoped would do the trick. He slips it back into its resting place, hoping that by twenty-five to ten he could be back at the Adlon Hotel with Cora to admire.

He never usually did this kind of thing, sneaking around when Cora might find him. But he didn't have a choice, there was so little time left until Christmas, and by the time they returned home he wouldn't have time for shopping. The girls were all sorted, he and Cora had done that together. Now, it was time to purchase Cora some items.

They never gave very much, a little stocking, that was a tradition stretching back to their first Christmas, and then one gift to open before the family. Much of the stocking was already ready and waiting beneath the dressing room bed at Downton, other pieces he'd left entrusted with Rosamund.

The item he was in search of today had to be special, it had to symbolise a good many things without making him look as though he loved Cora for very little but her physical appearance. What he wanted for her, was one of the new, modern nightgowns he had seen being wafted about by ladies obviously shopping for their trousseau a few days earlier. What had struck him about the youthful beauties tittering about them to their Mama's was that most of the girls had no particular chance of looking remotely enticing in them. Cora on the other hand would look splendid.

The women on the stairs don't seem obliged to let him pass as he scrambles for the third floor. They are all too busy, even at the early hour of five last nine to halt their conversations until they reach the level floor, instead they walk in pairs or threes, clutching at each other's elbows and giggling profusely.

The third floor was he thought the prettiest of the levels. The walls were wallpapered in a traditional pattern that was familiar to him (it was in nearly every house he'd been to in London), the ceilings a pristine white aside from the centre piece in each of the four sections the floor was split into. These sections contained intricate paintings depicting Ancient figures, mainly the gods and goddesses of the Roman world. He heads to the right, relieved to find the floor vacant of people. He daubs his brow slightly and steps into the cream hues of the nightwear department.

Three sides of the closed in section, all except the wall he stood before, were filled with layouts of nightgowns. Some were simple rails, each of the dresses covered in a thin veil to protect them from wear. Mannequins were set up either side of the mahogany panelling that framed the windows. The walls to his left and right, that separated this department from the two either side of it, each had two long mirrors directly opposite one another; perfectly angled so that a woman could see her full profile without fuss. A glass counter with additional accessories sat in the centre of the room, other tables were dotted around also, providing easy places for those shopping to compare different garments.

A lady immediately spots him looking lost in the doorway and steps his way. He lightly brushes her off with the remnants of his German before her eyes twinkle and she smiles, she asks in French if he is English. He almost laughs with amazement, French he could manage. He explains easily what he wants and he smiles asking politely if his wife is 'a pretty young thing?' The conversation continues much like that as they discuss Cora and the various nightgowns she lays gently before him. She explains it is paramount that she has 'an image of her client before she can select gowns.'

The first few don't hit on point but as Robert explains more to her, snippets of French he'd heard Mary and Edith practicing fall from his tongue, the gowns look more and more like Cora. He's almost decided on a cream one, with a ribboned back, tied together much like Cora's corset is with a pair of wavy short sleeves, that might just reach her elbow. He runs his fingers gently over the satin and flips the price tag over for his inspection when a box opens beside him, sleeves of tissue paper fluttering to the floor.

Lavender that reminds him of nothing but Cora wafts from the box, the packet of the dried flowers flopping to the table at the flick of the sales assistant's fingers.

"Voila!"

The blue fabric cascades to the floor as the lady holds it neatly at the top. It is a pale blue, a beautiful, morning sky shade. The neckline is low, everything Cora had ever worn had a collar, this certainly did not. It has delicate embroidery, adding some traditional cream to the modern colour, in a swirl of flowers and leaves. But more startling than that are the little straps that held the gown on the shoulders, they had a frilled edging, a soft piece of sheer fabric designed to gap the shoulders. The satin falls away somewhere at the knees, the sheer fabric of the shoulders falling over it and lower to the floor, from the waist. The lady, whose name he'd learnt was Margarethe lays the front down on the pile that had accumulated, so the back is visible. It's loose, much like the cream one, tied with ribbons but with handmade buttons studded down either length as embellishment. He nods his agreement as she beams beside him, her mumble of 'I knew it,' not escaping his notice.

The gown is reboxed and bagged in multitudes of tissue and ribbon before he pays the hefty price tag in cash. Not that he minded. It was worth it. Cora was worth it, far more in fact.

The stairs are less crowded on the descent, he thinks it might be the fact he's carrying the bag, he notices it less, too busy focusing on manoeuvring his purchase between the ruffles and frills that adorn every hemline. The ground floor he remembers, after spotting a clock that gave him another fifteen minutes before the time he wanted to be back wth Cora, sold a multitude of gifts for any and everyone. What he needed was a card, or gift label to attach to his chosen present.

He weaves his way through yet more people, stumbling through the children's department in the process and almost tripping over a young boy on the floor playing with a toy train- this was exactly why he forgoes shopping unless he has to, or unless Cora was going with him. There's a blonde girl in one corner bobbing about with various fur trims as her mother watches on, she couldn't have been more then six. He finally wanders calmly into the gift section, spotting instantly the stand of cards and pictures.

There was some very pretty ones, ladies on frozen over lakes skating. Children admiring huge Christmas trees with teddy bears and dolls tucked beneath their elbows. Others had decorative stacks of presents. It was odd therefore that the one he picks off the rack is of a depleted old man, dressed in a blue jacket, carrying an old sandy coloured sack, with a beard that's greying reaching to his chest. The elderly man was, he supposed, the German Father Christmas and he was trudging through the snow looking entirely fed up with his task.

The truth was, this was the one that made him chuckle, that brought to mind instantly the words he was going to scrawl on the back; words he hoped would make Cora laugh. He hoped she'd sit beside him in bed on Christmas morning laughing, she'd laugh so hard she'd fall back onto the mattress beside him, kissing his cheek, eyes shining with suppressed tears.

He hands over the coins required, fumbling at one point as he gets confused once more with the odd currency. Tucking the postcard into the side of the bag he checks his watch once more: twenty-five past, ten minutes until he wanted to be back wth Cora.

He dashes from the shop, weaving dangerously quickly between the prancing ladies. The chill of the late November air catches him as he thunders through the doorway, a security guard giving him a once over. He pulls his jacket more closely around him and crosses the street.

Walking back through the same crowded back streets as he had used on his way, catching sight of the odd well dressed gentlemen who'd obviously been enjoyed the acquaintance of some woman or another, he couldn't help but realise how absurd and unjust his mother had been on the day of his and Cora's departure. She'd heralded them, cocooned them each in the corner at separate moments, whispering behind her ruffled shoulders, telling them about their duty. Cora had blushed profusely and nodded along, Robert had turned his back and walked away. He wouldn't, not after all these years have his own mother treating Cora as a useless, unworthy piece of furniture. She'd proved herself so many times and yet his mother had refused to see it, purely because their was no son.

He almost trips on the curb of the pavement, diving to remove himself from the path of the oncoming taxi carriage. It had swerved up onto the pavement, travelling at a rate he really didn't think was necessary; it was as if it was carrying fugitives. A small women stands bundled in the doorway just to his right, her shawl not quite covering her bare shoulders, he drop a coin into her blackened, calloused hand, before taking the final right turn that lead him back onto the main street, and the Adlon Hotel.

The hotel itself had only opened on the twenty-fourth of October that year, he and Cora were the first guests to have stayed in the suite that they had occupied for the last four weeks. They had a week left before they were to depart home, which would take a few days at best. They hope to be back a couple of weeks before Christmas mainly to indulge in the Christmas treats with the girls; the decorating of the tree in the hall was still the best part of the festive season, despite their girls increased age. And the sneaking of presents upstairs and under beds was always a source of much amusement.

The stairs that flank the hotel are fanned; the longest ones at the bottom, the shortest directly below the door. Two porters stand by the door, double checking all visitors were recognised to them. The one on the right gives him a nod, and Robert dips his hat before taking it off. They'd spoken the other day and the young gentleman had been convinced that he and Cora were not in fact married but rather lovers. It wasn't the first time it had happened when he'd been abroad and it didn't surprise him, Cora was far too beautiful and looked so very much younger than him. Even when they'd married all his friends from Eton thought he was punching way above his weight. Where Cora was thin and delicate, hair perfectly arranged, he was a little too chubby and his hair often a wild mess. But it seemed she had taken to that.

The foyer of the hotel still hasn't seized to amaze him after four full weeks and he takes in the chandelier that shadows the centre length of the ceiling; blues and greens sparking over the walls. The plush carpets lining the stairs give easily beneath his heavy footing, his purchase swinging lazily on one side as he carries his hat in the other.

He manages to struggle the door to the suite open and he hears a distant shifting of material from the bedroom he and Cora had chosen (of the two in the suite) to occupy. He doesn't call out her name, she was an awful fidget in bed and there was a chance she was just turning in her sleep as they'd taken the break from Downton as an opportunity to have lazy mornings, although some were far lazier than others that was for sure.

He ambles towards the bedroom, poking his head gently around the door. She smiles back at him, bedding pulled to her chin, a sleepy expression twinkling softly in her eyes.

"You're back. At last." She reaches her upturned palm to him, her fingers stretching towards him before flicking the covers further off his side of the bed. "Come back to bed and keep me warm." He chuckles softly at her pout, slipping his tie from his collar and dropping his jacket to the floor. His shoes flop to the side of the dressing table and he removes his trousers. But all he notices, all he pays any attention to, is her face.

The way her cheeks warm ever so slightly as he crawls in bedside her, his bare body pressing against her own. He notices the shiver that flutters over her body as his fingers dance slowly down her spine through the fabric of her gown.

"What did you buy?" He chuckles into the top of her head, knowing she's trying to pry for his secrets.

"That would be telling." A soft gurgle comes from somewhere in her throat. He ignores it, burying his nose into her hair, letting the lavender scent, that had sent him hurtling back to her in the shop, wash properly over him. Burning a path up his nose; swimming into his eyes; tickling at his eyelashes; spreading beneath the skin on his fingers as he brushes them over the end of her curls. It wasn't just lavender though, there was something else under there, a hue of something he'd smelt nowhere else. In fact it was less of a fragrance and more of an essence, a constant that was always there whether the lavender was or not. It was a soft scent, very soft. It wasn't overwhelming, it was homely. It was that fragrance, more so than the flowers, which centred him and it centred him because it was Cora's scent.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England. December 1907.**

The saucer was becoming slippery; except it wasn't. She knew it was the pores on her fingers, releasing salts. The same was happening behind her high collar, beneath her corset on her back, the ties weren't tight and yet she felt boiling. The steam was rising from her cup and hitting her face, making her eyes water, her cheeks grow pink. But she couldn't lift her gaze to her eldest daughter opposite her. She should, but the stinging of her eyes was more bearable than her daughter realising something was up; realising that her father was making her mother unable to compose herself.

She closes her eyes briefly to recede the stinging that was going to send water droplets over the lashes if she wasn't careful. All it meant though was that she had one less unpleasant feeling to occupy her brain, which allowed Robert's gentle voice to waft into that space and pound as loudly behind her eyes as the water did.

"We saw lots of sights. We went to many of them two of three times enjoying the advantages of different routes hat still lead to the same enjoyment." She blushes hard, hoping against hope that Mary at her youthful age of sixteen didn't understand the innuendo that Robert seemed set on taunting her with. "Many a lazy morning resulted in a more refreshed sense of where we were going to visit that day and how we were going to get there."

All she could picture was his flushed face above her, the vibrations of her name against his neck as he found that place. The burning of his skin where it had pressed to her own. The throbbing between her thighs as he'd teased her before. The warmth of being curled against him the mornings, saving herself from the cold chills of November.

They had visited some sights that was for sure, and done a fair amount of shopping but enjoying each other had been the thing that had bound all that together. Every way they knew had been utilised, every route.

"Did you shop Mama? Were the shops more modern than the ones here?" She almost splutters on her tea, the anxiety over her daughter's innocence and the sudden introduction of herself into the conversation startling her. But she recovers soon enough, her mind placated knowing that Mary had taken Robert's comments at face value.

"We did shop dear, yes. But I wouldn't say the clothes were more modern." She doesn't let her mind dwell on the young girls wafted nightdresses for their trousseaus cross her mind. Nor the dresses they had been promoting that seemed to remove the need of a collared dress in the evenings. She lets her mind waft over the counter of powders and creams, even lip colours that would have no doubted piqued Mary's interest. "But there was one department store that was quite stunning. Each of the different levels had a different colour scheme." But Mary doesn't seem to find that interesting her toes tapping beneath her skirt. Violet would tell her to stop fidgeting but Cora remained too consumed in her own thoughts. She lifts her eyes slightly to her right as she moves the China to her lips.

The normally cool china is warm on her flesh and as Robert's own hand, stretched on his knee, fingers splayed, are found by her gaze she feels the warmth lift into her cheeks. Her eyes trace the shapes of his arms beneath his jacket, before resting on the rougher flesh of his neck. Tastes flash before her, the rich texture of Robert's skin, a sweet fruit that was never ending. The scolding liquid slides instantly down her throat, her collar clutching more viciously to her throat, hindering her breaths as she very almost chokes on the tea as he glances towards her, a smirk resting between his cheekbones. He'd noticed her watching then.

"So these sights you visited were they gardens, buildings, museums?" Mary's solemn smile seems to hide something more.

"Yes we visited-"

"Only Granny seemed to think you weren't seeing as many of the attractions and that you were just enjoying your suite at this brand new hotel." Cora feels her heart race more at that than Robert's secret teasing. Violet had made it quite clear before the trip, which she herself had pushed and pushed to be arranged, that the sole purpose was for the two of them to spend some quality time together, in the 'hope that something will finally come of it.' Cora had been on edge ever since yesterday anticipating her mother-in-law's appearance.

"What did she say?" Robert's teasing is forgotten, his tea cup clashes on his saucer as he strides to the table, readjusting his suit jacket.

Cora's nerves become all consuming as Mary explains. She can feel her pulse hammering at her wrist but despite that sensation, the increased blood flow, her fingers fall weak. The joints complaining at the weight of the China, her wrist hardening, stiffening into that set position with the saucer poised just above her lap.

She feels the tea already floating in her stomach turning harshly, reminding her all too clearly of when the girls had tumbled inside her. How she'd hoped and prayed for little boys, every turn with Sybil had felt different, felt unfamiliar to her. It had all suggested the heir they so needed and yet her hopes had been dashed, sending her into a state of mind she never wished to return to. She felt the twinge of her insides, the pulls that were simply telling her she needed some cake to go with her tea, but all she could think of was what it wasn't. It wasn't the struggling kick of a curled over infant, testing the boundaries of its surroundings. It wasn't the little Christmas gift that she had Robert could spend the next few months choosing names and clothes for. It was just her ageing body demanding her attention. She stands stiffly, the cup and saucer still fixed at that same odd height. Images begin to blur before her vision, her stomach thumbling and her pulse thundering.

"I'm just going upstairs I feel a little unwell." There was no point in lying to Robert, she could see through the strange fog that seemed to cloud more than just her vision, and was beginning to eat away at her mind, that his eyes were already trained firmly in her direction.

The harsher carpet of the hall presses at her toes, pushing them into the fronts of her shoes; pushing her faster. Her thoughts spike with each thump her toes makes against the leather. Each step brings forth an image: a baby curled up then disappearing; Robert kissing her swollen stomach; the cries of a baby. Some of the other images are harsh: screams and cries; Violet staring down her nose at her, lips drawn together shaking her head in disapproval. She sees Mary watching her over her cup, frowning at her baby in her lap: 'she's not a boy Mama, you've ruined us' she murmurs.

Her shoes find the softer velvet carpet of the stairs but she almost stumbles on the first step, her toe jamming straight against the back of the step. A hand catches her before she falls, but she can't make out Charles Carson's face, she only recognises his voice. Her mind swims, a heavy pressure drowning all sensations other than guilt and anger.

Sounds are the only things that slip through the void. And that's when she pauses, the hush of voices, young male voices pulling her in. Linking her drastic state of mind, a little boy, a young man, an heir, to the voices of the present, to the youthful lads leading in the tree.

She hears their hushed accents, so very different from her own and Robert's, as they position the tree and Carson ties the very top to the pillar in the gallery as the men announce they are happy with the position. They begin giving instructions to Mrs Hughes about the watering of the tree for the best results. Cora watches as two men jostle to the left of the tree, slapping each other on the back.

She lets her eyes trail over the great expanse the huddle is all bottle greens that had resulted from the red and oranges that could be seen nearer the trunk of the tree. The general autumnal hue the tree still seemed to emit; the very tip was still a mustard brown. The narrow needles that adorned every single branch in their thousands, beckoning, as their life began to draw to a close for the decorations that stood in dusted boxes upstairs; anything to make its last days more beautiful. Cora thought of where it had stood only yesterday, in the overpopulated woodland that shadowed the house, and now it had the privilege, a younger Mary would say, of being brought into that great house it had presided over to be content for the last weeks of its life, to live in the splendour away from the harsh temperatures of the Yorkshire winter. But an older, more well educated Mary realised that the tree was old anyway, and now, they, this family were forcing it towards death at their own extravagance. Cora felt like that, a little overlooked, her life unimportant except when it concerned the sole 'function' she had to perform, and had failed to. They thought of the tree's function as being their decoration at Christmas, but that wasn't what it was at all, it had a bigger part in life, in this environment other than just a decoration. But Cora did know, that despite the tree being made redundant in their home, it still held its head high and she supposed that's what she should do, keep going, for the sake of what she did have; for Robert and her daughters. What she didn't have she couldn't odds but what she did have she should be dwelling on, being thankful for, exactly as Christmas festivities suggested.

But as quickly as her determination had come, the encounter she had been dreading steps into the hall, the feathers in her hat standing more alert than Carson.

Cora watches the older woman's gaze take over the Christmas tree. She sees her eyes flick like a serpents to the young men dressed in dark colours; she spies the quirk of her lip, the questioning glance at the 'riff raff' which lined the great hall.

"It's on an angle that's worse than the leaning tower of Pisa itself." The room goes silent as she points her stick towards the sharp point that marks the trees climax. "It needs to be further to the left at the top Carson."

"Mama," she takes a gentle step back down as Violet's gaze falls on her. She feels her eyes give her a once over, hovering decidedly on her stomach. She arches her eyebrow almost as high as her mauve hat when her own hands fall instinctively to her stomach; to protect the emptiness that seemed was the only thing she was worthy of having there. But, her neck doesn't tilt, her back doesn't slouch at the non-verbal interrogation, she keeps her head high, her gaze locked with her Mama's. "Carson has done a fine job, he's made allowance for the weight of the star that will rest on the top."

"Very well." She doesn't look impressed, her face twists in that way it does when she's so convinced she is right. Her stick wafts onto the stairs. "Robert said you felt unwell." She leads the way upstairs and Cora reluctantly follows, she could feel already where this was going. Dear Mama certainly didn't want to discuss the holiday, she didn't want to discuss the architecture and artwork they'd visited. She didn't want an insight into the shops or the clothes she'd purchased, or even a list of the Christmas presents they'd purchased. All she wanted was an insight into the hotel, and specifically how much time the two of them had spent enjoying the delights of their suite, and each other.

"It's passing." They reach the gallery and Cora immediately turns to her right, wanting the comfort of her bedroom. Their bedroom. The familiarity of Robert's things strewn about her room might help her to relax, might stop her from yelling obscene remarks at his mother.

"I've had tea sent to your sitting room, I thought that would be more comfortable." Her mauve skirt brushes hard against the banister as she turns on her heels, her stick managing to make a deafening, echoing sound despite the plush carpet it was making contact with. Cora can feel the hard stare that her cornflower eyes are no doubt emitting but thankfully, as she trails behind the older woman she doesn't have to be under the scrutiny of quite yet.

Violet immediately lowers herself onto the apricot setter, leaving Cora with the less than comfortable chair that had been given to her by Robert when he'd invested in a new one for his desk. The result being the springs were entirely gone, having been sat in by all seven earls of Grantham at some point and the stuffing was lumpy. But, the upholstery was stunning and had fitted perfecting in this room and received a great deal less wear as Cora tired as often as possible to do her work outside, or sat on the settee in her sitting room, rather than at her desk. Besides Robert had placed her a desk in the small library just around the corner from his own, which afforded a lovely view of the grounds and his conversation.

She feels the churning within her again as the cornflower eyes that have filtered more to a grey, achieving the illusion of looking twice as menacing, rest firmly on her fingers crossed in her lap.

"So, Robert didn't really mention the hotel a moment ago, was it nice?"

"Mama, you're not one to beat about the bush. I know what you want to know and the answer is, as you should know, it's too soon to tell. A month hasn't passed yet."

"Cora don't be opaque it doesn't suit you. There are other signs as you know full well. Do you feel tired or-" She closes her eyes very slowly, swallowing the hurt, the anxiety in Violet's voice as she struggles to comprehend the lack of a grandson.

"I'm sorry Mama. You know full well if I could I would have done. I want a son just as much as you would like a grandson. I love Robert and it hurts, really pains me that I can't give him what he so wants." Her nails are untrimmed she notes dimly as she talks into her lap. The hollowness of her stomach seems to pound like her heart. The vibrations that twirl there are as constant and as solid as her heart pumping blood. The emptiness as reliable as the workings of her circulation.

Her companion makes no reply and Cora glances up after a time, letting her lip finally fall from between her teeth. She only finds her Mama's gaze trained straight out the window.

"There's still time. Robert took Patrick and I years it seemed, although perhaps not this long. But I'd only had one other, so it felt like a lifetime. The odd thing was, we so needed a son and yet I would have been equally as content if Robert had been a girl. I just wanted to be a mother again." Cora stares at her quizzically, head tilted to one side, looking at the poise of Violet's hand over the silver handle of her stick. Her nails so pink against the shining surface, the wrinkles on her knuckles clearly beginning to show the age of her companion. "But, the thing was Patrick and I were a traditional upper class couple. You and Robert are not and yet there is no baby." She stares back at her again, her lips sliding into a prim, straight line while Cora's cheeks warm. The irony was Cora had thought of this before, she honestly couldn't work it out either but she'd put it down to bad luck, after all Sybil had taken longer than expected to conceive. "Anyway, I'm pleased you had such a lovely time. I thought I might come over tomorrow for the decorating of the tree." And just like that all attention falls on Christmas. Presents for the girls, the baubles they would use this year and those they wouldn't. The three new ones Violet had purchased, one each for the three girls, as had been the tradition since they had been born. It's only when Violet quizzes her quite calmly on the presents she's purchased for Robert that she freezes up.

She can visualise the dressing gown before her but she can't get seem to see it without Robert wearing it. She stumbles as she tries to describe what it looks like without adding assumptions about what he will look like in it. She fumbles even when her Mama asks her for what colour it is, changing her mind from navy to just blue in a matter of seconds. Violet eyes her suspiciously making Cora's cheeks warm. It was ludicrous she knew, not being able to describe a simple item of clothing but she supposed it was what it symbolised that put her off.

She'd brought it in the KaDeWe in Berlin almost to remind herself what the state of her marriage was; that Robert would still love her despite her inability to produce that heir his mother had sent them away for.

And the reason she'd purchased that item and none other was that it was a symbol of him and Cora. She was the only person that saw him in it that wasn't his valet. She often peeled it off of him or watched from the bed as he divulged it and slung it over her chair. Sometimes he would wear nothing beneath it, he complains viciously of the all in one union suite that is men's underwear. Pyjamas he did usually wear so if was often with nervous blushes from them both that he appeared in her room without them.

But it wasn't just those moments that stood out. Robert wore a dressing gown without fail, whatever was or wasn't beneath it, to enter her room every night and to leave it every morning. It was a symbol of the hours they spent in her room, alone and together. It was a constant that reminded her that her marriage was sound and loving. And more importantly that the man she had entered into that promise with, loved her.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hope you all enjoyed the first chapter and please if you did view, but didn't review you would make my festive season if you did drop me a line. Hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England. December 1907.**

The paper was the prettiest he could find, a pale dusty pink with stripes of golds and yellows. Thankfully, because the nightdress was boxed he didn't have to fold it himself otherwise he'd quite frankly never get it sealed in the paper. Unfortunately though, it didn't keep his mind so occupied, all he could hear were his mother's words.

 _Tell her._

The paper falls from the corners again a harsh thump echoing in the room as the scissors hit the door. The pink crinkles, his fingers curling over it too quickly. The number of creases representing the tears in his mind, the curves and sharp edges that wouldn't go away.

He sees the elderly man jeering at him from the card. The words he'd thought so funny to engrave on the back not so amusing anymore. He realised that maybe subconsciously he'd chosen that card in Berlin because this problem he'd kept to himself had been eating away at him. The worry of telling her and being turned away, labelled old and useless was too much to comprehend. That's what had put him off when he'd come back. That wound may have been physical, but the hurt and images that raced in his mind after war had been just as heavy. He'd thought at that time that Cora would denounce him crazy so the idea of taking away the chance of a baby from her too; he thought he'd be out her life. He realised now those thoughts were ill founded, he and Cora had a great deal more together than just a mutual need for children but at the time the war had changed him, made him doubt existence.

But to tell her now, six years later. She'd accuse him of being a liar, not trusting her. She'd be twice as likely to cry and turn him away, spend the rest of Christmas giving him cold stares until some time came when they were both too drunk to control themselves.

The golden stripes blur and twist around each other and tears seem to sting at his lashes as she tries to force his eyelids apart so he can fight the tears back. The irony was, when the doctor had told him there would be an extremely small chance of any future children it hadn't bothered him. Just a relieve from the pain, an end to the war was all that bothered him. To be able to see Cora's face again; he'd hardly shed a tear. But now, remembering how Cora had cried in his arms that first night in Berlin he couldn't shake the thought that she blamed herself entirely for the lack of children. And yet it wasn't her. It was him. She'd cried and he'd stayed silent. He'd held her knowing that it was his own failed fertility that was making her worry.

But what made his blood run colder was that his own mother had been harassing Cora for years over the issue of no heir, goodness she'd set up the holiday in Berlin in the hope that it would solve the problem. And what had he done? He'd sat around, protecting Cora as best he could, confirming to his mother that they were trying and yet, for his own self interest, his own nerves at losing her, he'd kept the truth to himself.

He knew how his mother had found out, she'd snooped, she'd called some people, discovered the surgery and the resulting implications. And indeed her annoyance had been presented to him not in the way he would have expected. You would have thought the lack of a grandson would be the main problem but her issue was with his morals, his refusal to tell Cora. She'd yelled, and despite her forceful nature he couldn't honestly remember the last time he had been at the firing end of her anger.

 _What do you mean Cora doesn't know?_

He hadn't explained his concerns to her, his dearest Mama would have laughed in his face, indeed he would laugh at his own stupid self if it wasn't eating away at him so badly. He knew he was being childish, it was time he just got it over with and told her, she would react in whatever manner and then they could work passed the situation.

A gentle knock sounds at the door, the soft echo reverberating in the room bringing him away from the past and into the present.

"Who is it?" He manages to croak the words through his aching throat, the harsh tears he'd been crying finally catching up on him.

"It's me darling." Cora's soft reply makes him close his eyes once slowly, his foot tapping the paper and pale apricot box beneath the bed, as he wipes the tears slowly from his face with his handkerchief. "Can I come in now?" He knows he didn't ask her to wait, but he supposed his worried ask of whom it was had deterred her.

"Yes. Yes." The linen he fumbles less successfully into his top pocket, her eyes immediately fall on his hand resting there. A little frown crumbles her brow.

"The girls want to decorate the tree." He finally looks properly at her. He lets his eyes wander over her slender frame, pausing at the twisted bundle her fingers have made at her waist. He admires the heavy fabric of her skirt, at least she was staying warm in the winter. Her blouse is wool, with an enclosed collar which stretches high over her neck. It clings to the curves he knows so well, and the indents of her collar are clearly visible. He watches her harsh breathes, the rise and fall of her chest that seemed so exaggerated. He glances again at the waist he could wrap his arm around in one motion. Her waist was very tiny, despite the three children she'd borne, but he couldn't help thinking her corset was too tight. When her fingers trail up her neck to her collar, easing it gently from her skin, her eyes still assessing him waiting for him to move, he steps forwards.

"The girls can wait five minutes while you get O'Brien to loosen your corset, or perhaps you should put on a summer blouse?"

"Robert, I'm fine. You on the other hand have bloodshot eyes."

"I managed to rub some paste in them while I've been wrapping." He's annoyed at how easily he manages to lie, he could tell her now. But no. "Decorating the tree is always strenuous. All that up and down ladders and keeping the girls from fighting. We can't have you uncomfortable too." She doesn't reply but she lets him take her hand and trail her to her bedroom. He had to feel like he was looking after her, if he was going to keep lying like this he had to at least be a good husband in some respect. Her fingers confirm his suspicion. They are sticky, her fingers were rarely warm, even in summer, let alone perspiring. He opens her drawers, still clutching her sweaty palm in his. He hears her gentle chuckle beside her as he stares bemused at the items before him. He feels his cheeks blush red as he realises he's staring at a small collection of her undergarments, and left over prices of cloth that O'Brien kept for her monthlies.

"Try the next drawer." He does and immediately spies a blouse Cora had been wearing for some years but which was a favourite of his. It's turquoise, but closer very slightly in colour to green. It was a colour that emphasised her eyes perfectly, particularly when coupled with the indigo skirt she'd chosen.

He doesn't think about what's he's doing, his hands immediately releasing the buttons running down the back of her woollen ensemble. He feels the slick salts that run over her skin above her corset as his fingers prize the buttons covering that region. When he reaches the bottom he gasps at how much her corset pushes out beneath her skirt, her thick blouse had been disguising how tight O'Brien had pulled.

"Cora, this is far too tight, tell O'Brien to do it looser next time." She doesn't say anything but a gasp he'd felt frequently in Berlin race against his skin as they had laid together, erupts from between her mouth as his fingers push the two halves of her corset apart, before loosening every single cross of the ribbons.

"Actually I asked her to do it a little tighter, don't blame her."

"What possessed you to ask that?" He's pushes the new silk onto her shoulders and she turns so he can button down the front. But she stills his hands, catching his wrists as he reaches to flick the uppermost button into its place.

He pushes his own fingers into her wrist a little, finding her pulse, stroking his thumb gently over it. Her cerulean eyes seem a little misty and he realises she's crying. He drops his hold on her hands letting his thumb gently trace her cheek instead.

"It was a stupid idea that occurred to me this morning. I thought maybe, if you could find me tempting during the day, and we...that perhaps we might conceive." She chuckles to herself at her own stupidity but she chokes on her own laughs; tears clogging in her throat.

He swallows hard. Very hard, and tucks her beneath his chin, inhaling the lavender he'd always found comfort in. She'd been this way at the beginning of the trip to Berlin, but it had passed. The strain she was giving herself about the situation was clearly getting quickly too much and it was of his doing. It was one thing to keep it from her when she'd been content that having another child was going to take them some time but to keep it from her now, when time had passed was inconsiderate.

"Cora, my dear, I think it's high time I-" But the piercing call from the landing stops him mid flow. The door swinging open to a flying Sybil.

"Mama, Papa quickly. Isis has escaped the kitchens and is in the decoration boxes." He presses a soft kiss to her head, the moment having passed.

As the carpet races away beneath his feet he knows one thing though, he will tell her before the new year. They would find a moment and he would tell her.

The crunching of paper and the dangerous calls between his daughters about moving the glass baubles filter through his more serious thoughts. As he catapults far too quickly down the stairs, the polished wood of the rail slipping effortlessly beneath the pads of his fingers, not feeling the slight indentations that had been made over the years from little boys and their toys, Isis' tail flaps quite literally towards him. Robert leans over to fluff her ears as she likes as she stands staring up at him, asking with her eyes if he thinks her clever.

"You've been naughty, as you knew full well. And for being naughty punishments are needed." He holds a small treat in his hand and leads her gently to the servants staircase. The smooth carpet is replaced by the firm concrete and his shoes make an echo as he descends, careful to keep his head from hitting the low ceiling. A footman calls for her and she's gone leaving Robert free to go and assess the damage she'd caused.

It's with another wave of anxiety therefore that his fingers press to the bottle green baize and he re-emerges amongst the scent and vastness of his domain. Downton had a unique smell, particularly at Christmas. The almost violent pungency of the tree was off set by the familiar background smell of the wood that covered the walls and panels. The heavier smell of musk often filled air; the height of the hall often trapping cold air and dust which fell from the picture frames when a wind blew in the front doors. The library always gave off the familiar, timeless aroma of leather. You could picture the first Earl sitting in the library, filling it with the scent that would fill it forever more. One always knew when new books had sneaked in between the shelves, the smell was more vibrant, more ready to burn at your heart, trying to tempt your fingers into reaching the new book from the shelve and prying open the fist page, letting the thin, unmarked, pristine page slip between nails. By the time it returned to the shelve it was likely dog-eared and yellowing; particles of grease having wound their way onto the corner and sides.

What strikes him more than the warm smell of the hall, from the sticky atmosphere of Mrs Patmore's cooking below stairs, is Cora. She's bent over the boxes distributing decorations to a line of children from the school who are then taken hold of by one of his three daughters who helps them put it on the tree. Mary and Edith help some of them onto the steps while Sybil takes the smaller children around the lower half of the tree. It was amazing how scared all the children looked; most of them had a poker face expression and none of them were talking, the school master stood off to one side watching over them all.

"Cora," he presses his hand over the small of her back. "When did we decide to have the school children come?"

"We discussed it in Berlin and again last night." She looks at him with an exasperated expression. He tries to find that conversation in his maze filled mind. But he can't, obviously he hadn't been paying attention. But Cora doesn't seem to notice the detour his mind takes. "Mrs Patmore made some biscuits. They're over on the table. You should give them out and ask them about what they're looking forward to about Christmas." She stands, ready to move along the line distributing more baubles but she turns once more to him and smiles with a small tease in her eyes. "Oh, and try to smile." He hadn't realised he hadn't been, but he supposed the worry he was having over his secret was weighing him down far more than he thought. He grabs her slender waist, feeling the silk of his favourite blouse slip between his fingers. He forgets the collection of young eyes peering over the man they had obviously been told was terrifying and that they'd been in excessive trouble if they talked in his presence, and he kisses her on the cheek. "I will, if only to prove to Mr Jenkins that there's no reason to scare the children before they come." He whispers against her cheek and she nods gently.

Mrs Patmore had cut the cinnamon cookies into different Christmas shapes. Some are stars, others boughs of holly and Christmas trees. So not only did they smell like perfection but they also looked it. Robert helps himself to one when all the children have one safely in hand. And the cinnamon was gorgeous, coming in short waves as each little crumb dissolved beneath his tongue. The children eventually build into a hum of chatter and one little boy dressed all in different shades of brown and a mini red tie asks him what his real name is, 'because it can't be Lord Grantham.' He'd replied with a chuckle, giving the young boy the answer.

His regards Cora from across the room, trying to determine if the words he'd been stopped from saying earlier were weighing on her mind. But they didn't appear to be. Even to him, who knew her so well, the silent, unique hints that told him and nobody else that she was worrying or nervous weren't apparent.

He watches her for other reasons as well. He admires the shape of her face, the angular cheek bones and her small chin. Her eyes set a little below the curls of her hair that hang onto her forehead. The cerulean blue that flashed across his mind in the worst and best moments of his day. The specs of a darker shade that cling at the edges of her iris; the still darker shade that echoed outwards from the centre spreading its blackness through the iris into a thin line that encircles the blues. He admires the smile she keeps arched with her lips; the little gurgles of laughter that escape her as she talks to the children please him. But, they remind him, once more that she will never kneel like this before another child of their own. She'll never have to adjust her skirt so she can crouch down without falling over. She'll never again take a little hand that has a mix of their qualities and lead that little body over to the tree, holding the child's waist and gently helping them untangle the ribbon to place it over the greenery. It aches, somewhere deep, very deep down to know he's taken that away from her. But in comparison to the graze that left, it was the thought of telling her that left a sizeable gash, the realisation that he would remove even her hope of those things. Those children; sons and daughters.

* * *

 **Berlin, Germany. Late November 1907.**

She pushes, and she truly never barges, her way through the throng of people that seemed to cling to the entrance as though it were a bar. She almost regrets her decision to dive from the bed and scramble down to a waiting taxi the moment she saw Robert was safely over the street. He was in the KaDeWe she was sure where else would he be buying her Christmas present? What was more important, paramount in fact was making sure he didn't see her. Her task therefore was to make her purchase and return to the apartment before Robert returned and found her gone.

The purchase was done, but getting back to the taxi was proving impossible. There was all the flighty young girls trousseau shopping with their mother's which seemed to be taking them far more arguments than even she and her mother had had. Boxes were being thrust in Cora's path every so often as a nearby Aunt appeared with some new item she thought would be 'perfect for the honeymoon.'

And then there was the chance of bumping into Robert, she'd already had to dive behind a mannequin as she'd almost walked straight into Robert outside the nightwear department. Since then, every top hat makes her jerk awkwardly behind a nearby mannequin or arrangement of clothes. But the worry passes quickly enough as long noses or pointed ears catch her notice and she can safely assume that it's not Robert she is spying the back of. It was likely Robert had already left, it was a fair walk back to the hotel that would take at least ten minutes. That was assuming he meant to be back at about twenty-five to ten.

Cora was therefore very time conscious as she swirls and zigzags her way to the exit, letting her eyes fall upon the ceiling at regular occasion. It had a large central painting of a ballroom, obviously from the Regency. Women lined the room, all in various shades of pink, cream and blue muslim. Men partnered some in the middle of the wooden flooring, holding loosely the fingers of the women they partnered. There was no affection, no looks of love. None of those bright sparkles she saw on Robert's face daily. No kisses. It was odd even one hundred years from the date of the scene watching over her that nothing had changed. Women were still led gently by men, assumed to be fragile. It still hadn't been realised that women did have a voice and perhaps it was time to embrace that inner voice, let it free. Proper love, and a fair marriage for a woman was still not on the cards. The women with the finest jewels and the best dress still received the best offers of marriage. The woman at the centre of society were always the one with the richest husband. Just as the woman watching over her had the finest gloves stretched over her pale frame she had the finest hat pinned to her head. She was a symbol of her husband. Except, she wasn't. She was meant to be, that's what society thought at first glance. But if they knew her and Robert they knew she wasn't his little dress up doll. They knew he hadn't made her change and that beyond that, he let her help him with the estate, her opinions were somewhat valued by him, particularly her ideas for the girls.

It was true that she had missed the girls in the last month they'd been in Berlin. But the time she and Robert had been able to have together was well worth it. Knowing that when she woke in the morning she didn't have to get up immediately, that she didn't have a series of jobs that needed to be done. But by far the best part was waking up to a warm bed, Robert still lazing beside her. He was still waking before her, but he didn't go anywhere, he stayed so when she opened her eyes the first thing she heard was his murmured greeting. Followed smoothly by his bare arm snaking over her waist, his lips whispering something else as they press somewhere on her neck or shoulder. Anyone would have thought they were on their honeymoon. In truth it was a little like they were on a second one, the girls had grown up and it was time to reestablish the strong relationship it was often difficult to maintain with three young children.

But, oh, there was a problem, when wasn't there? There was still a shadow, a cloud that hung above them; ready to burst at any moment releasing it's dark, oozing fumes and the rain that only meant a sure soaking and a chill that lasted weeks. Months. Years. Because it would, the looks she'd get, the whispering even of her own mother-in-law would follow her for that long if she failed. Which seemed destined to be the case. Six years he'd been home, six years they'd been trying for the little baby boy that was to seal all their futures.

She finally spies the waiting taxi, the horses fidgeting restlessly at the movements of the whip in the wind. They visibly shake no doubt due to the cold and a loud reluctance tinges the air as they feel her weight settle in the carriage.

The springs of the leather complain as she lowers her delicate frame, the tears and cuts that run along every seam bulging with large amounts of foam. The brown is worn to faded yellow in a great many places and the leather that does remain the right colour is sadly chapped like her poor lips in the cold. Little specks of the broken fabric cling to the underside of her skirt making the pristine cream appear as though it had been splattered with mud.

The gentle chiming of the half hour by the clock startles her, they weren't even halfway back. She taps twice on the window, a gesture she'd been told earlier in her trip was code for going faster.

Sure enough, her back thunders against the hard back- the taxi wasn't plush enough to have a back rest as well- as she hears her own distant 'Yelp' of annoyance as the fire spreads steadily from her lower back to her neck and into her head. She could picture the mottled blue that would appear and Robert would question her about, no doubt with his lips pressed to it, which only seized to increase the ache, as the pressure on the lump changed with his mouth.

She's finally finding some comfort in her ride when her body gets tossed straight into one corner, her shopping tumbling onto the floor, the bows falling loose. The vibrations of the wheel up and over the curb seem to be the cause of the horrendous jerk and she peers out the small back window to see the cause of the driver's cursing.

What she sees makes her briefly chuckle, and then become severely anxious, her limbs going stiff and hard, her breathing jagged as she waits for movement, any kind of sign that shows he's still alive. For it is Robert who stands pressed against the corner of the street. Cora watches with bated breath, ready to stop the carriage if he doesn't move. But he does, a face of pure hatred radiating from his eyes.

She admires him as he gallantly tips his hat to a poor lady begging in a secluded doorway and drops three coins into her hand. Her hair was dank and unwashed, Cora could see the tangled matting at the back. Her nose and eyes are circled in black, some was dirt but the rest could well be the signs of lack of sleep. Her lips are chapped and flaking, much like the seat beneath Cora, her nails long and dark as she encloses them firmly over the coins with a quivering smile up at the gentleman. She could see the thanks that radiated from her, the honest believe that Robert had done her the most amazing turn. She might have some food for Christmas now, or a meal for a child she might have. It was those good-natured things that should stir people up and out at Christmas.

Cora thinks of the young school children in the village at home. Some of them probably never had a tree at home, many others no chance of any special gifts. Yet here she was buying expensive luxuries for herself and her family. The colourful bows the sales lady, Margarethe she had been called, had wrapped her boxes in no longer seemed necessary- that money could go to the less fortunate.

She is once more filled with images of the children that tottered out school in the afternoon at Downton, she wonders over how many siblings many of them had, maybe young babies that would even prevent the cooking of a special luncheon at Christmas, or those without the means to heat the house sufficiently in winter. Children shivering in shawls fill her mind. It was true she and the girls always distributed blankets and food from the gardens in December but only to the worst off, and even then it didn't mean those children saw any particular joy, any stand out moment that they kept with them for the whole of the season, not like her girls, they often experienced so many enjoyable moments they couldn't remember half of them.

The carriage stutters to a stop and Cora takes the hand of the porter who helps her to the ground, taking the luggage from her. A quick glance down the street confirms that Robert is not yet approaching. The glass doors swing open from the inside, the doorman effectively going unnoticed by those that didn't look for him. The velvet plum settees in the foyer are usually her safe haven as she dives through the door after a day out. But this morning despite the sharp complaints of her stiff and hard limbs as well as the ballooning bruise on her spine she heads straight for the stairs.

She tugs her hat swiftly from her head, removing the pins that had been holding her simplified bun in place not that she really needed to take them out, her weighted hair falls of its own accord and she flexes her fingers through the knots. She places her gloves neatly in her hat and their burgundy shade stands out against the piercing black that complemented the stark white of the outside.

The panelled door to their suite finally appears before her at the end of a plush red carpeted corridor on the third floor. The key slips easily inside and she hears the latch fall. She tips the porter quickly, reminding him to say nothing before scampering across the living space, the boxes teetering more than a little awkwardly in her arms. She crams then under the bed, her nails jostling with the smaller one on the top that just didn't seem to want to do as she wanted. She would have to sort them into her case later.

The coal buttons on her jacket at first refuse to give, her finger and thumb twisting this way and that to no effect. When they fall free the shoulder pads slip and it cascades to the floor. The long cream skirt easily follows and she's stood in only her corset and underwear. The latter she could keep on but the corset she needed off. See got it on easily enough, wiggling it over her hips and then pulling sharply at the ties dangling above her bottom. To release it she knew she only had to pull the hurried bow she'd made free. Sure enough, after thankfully, finding the end to the ribbon quickly the knot falls free. She tugs the two panels of wired padding apart and her stomach aches at the exertion, but it comes, her head tilting backwards with a smile.

She pulls her nightdress over her head as she stumbles for the chaise longue with the pile of discarded clothes, she can only thank god that after yesterday afternoon's laze in bed her clothes had ended up in a heap on that particularly piece of furniture, otherwise Robert might notice the sudden mess of the room.

The resounding echo of Robert's steel key clamping into place in the lock makes her jump at the bed. The sheets give way, the linen falling open at her touch and allowing her to slip gently beneath. The cold white fabric protecting the brand new mattress makes her shudder, and she dimly notes nobody had been in to rekindle the fire. The pillow stings the back of her neck with its ice cold demeanour. Her back shimmers at the touch of the cotton on her spine where her nightgown has risen up. Each of the knuckles of her spine tries to pull away from the arctic conditions only for another one to harbour a complaint.

Robert appears about then and she calmly voices her pleasure at him being back. Her mind on the other hand is entirely occupied with a number of other things. She's trying desperately to stay focused on pretending to be sleepy, after all, Robert thought she hadn't moved, which included not reacting so obviously to the chill of the bedding. The other thing, which was definitely helping with the trying not to notice the cold problem, was watching Robert slowly undress himself.

"Come back to bed and keep me warm." She did truly feel cold, but she knew the sight of him so plainly before her was having an effect. When he climbs in beside her, arms instinctively finding their places around her waist all she can notice is the warmth. The nakedness that had been filling her mind is replaced by the fizzling of his skin on hers. It wasn't just the delights of his upper body, the expanse between his shoulders where she lays her head. It was the smallest things, the soft bending of his knee so that she could hook her toes over his hip and into the warmth that settled behind that joint.

"What did you buy?" Her mind has drifted so quickly back to the chance of the purchase she'd seen him making in the nightwear department being for her. What on earth did that mean? That he wasn't satisfied, she highly doubted it, but then she couldn't be sure, not with the deep grey cloud of a son hanging over them.

"That would be telling." She rolls her eyes at his sarcasm, easily picturing the wide, toothy grin that plastered his features. He seems to sense she's likely be annoyed at his comment; his fingers massaging more insistently at the grove of her hip bone; his nose drifting over her hair and forehead, trying to tilt their eyes to a point of meeting.

"Can't I persuade you?" She feels the gentle vibrations of his laugh on her mouth, the cooler air blowing onto her lips. His nose runs effortlessly along her own and he touches his lips so very briefly to hers.

"You can try, but it shan't make any difference." She ignores him, rubbing her nails roughly down his chest, trying to find the places that would make him shiver delightfully beneath her fingers. His tongue slides tenderly over her top lip, teasing her, his fingers pushing her hips off of him and back onto the cold, crumbled sheets. She knows she murmurs appreciatively, entirely forgetting the plan of trying to confirm her Christmas present, when his teeth nibble at her mouth, his tongue slipping decidedly between her lips. Everything was forgotten, passed over, except him. Robert was everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Thank you for all the reviews so far! Hope you like this last chapter, and please tell me what you think! Merry Christmas! X**

* * *

 **Berlin, Germany. Late November 1907.**

It was always a struggle getting the new stock up to the third floor. But today? Today it seemed impossible. She'd thought the gift department would be clear at this early hour of the morning, and indeed it was, there was only one solitary woman in sight. But what she wasn't expecting was quite so much stock, it seemed she had been selling as much as she and the bosses would hope.

What surprises her is the indelicate sneeze she makes that was surely brought on by the stunning amalgamation of different flowers that she thought belonged in the perfume department. She could clearly pinpoint the lavender that had always followed her around but she couldn't tell if that was actually in the air around her or if she was smelling that from herself. Her mother made her wear lavender, as a reminder of her father, not that she, Margarethe had ever known him. But he sent money, lots of money. She'd be no more than her mother, an actress without the money.

Margarethe takes a second to admire the lady stood alone in the room, perfectly engrossed. She always admired the dress of the women from other countries, the styles were the same but somehow the air they created wearing them was different. This woman was probably English, she was mighty pale. Her fingers, fully gloved of course, slip gently over numerous small boxes displayed on one table. Each had a different design, mainly Christmas related and she supposed they were mainly designed to box jewels and she could see their decorative use on a dressing table for holding hair pins or earrings. The lady chuckles quietly to herself and Margarethe drops her gaze, feeling strangely as though she was interfering in someone's private moment.

But all too suddenly her eyes disobey her, finding the the lady's profile around the corner of the boxes she clutches. Admiring the way she tilts the box she'd selected to the light, her lips parted, loose chocolate curls dripping onto her neck. The box she is surveying is one with a teddy bear on the lid. The scruffy looking bear has a red bow tie and dark ruffled fur jutting out at lots of strange angles from his arms and legs. His eyes are dark brown, and the insides of his ears are tinged with rose pink. The pile of presents he sits atop are delicately wrapped in shining shades of red and green. The majority are tied with shimmering silver and gold ribbons.

Margarethe hides her blonde hair behind the apricot gift boxes as the women looks in her direction. She starts walking again, not wanting to accused of loitering as she had been before.

The deep, unwavering impact of the corner of the cardboard against her stomach makes her startle. Her eyes fly wide, only to find the lemon colours of the familiar nightwear department ribbons before her. But the brim of the woman's hat is clear above her, as is her confused German that's seems to suggest an American rather than a Brit.

Margarethe can't keep up with the muddled German which must show on her face as the woman just smiles apologetically making her laugh.

She announces her own apologies in French, hoping the lady would find that easier. She had been taught, with the money her British father had sent over the years, fluent French, it was certainly helpful in her current job.

She nods a final apology to the woman and heads on her way. She does pause momentarily to look at the Christmas postcards on display. Seeing if there was any she liked for her mother, or indeed a husband, is she ever had one. It was something she always did, looked at the cards to see if there was one that was suitable for her imaginary lover.

So it's with a grim smile on her face that she studies the counter that contains an array of every possible design. Some have presents and children, others startling trees with thousands of baubles. Many have snow as the main theme with sleighs or dogs racing across them, others depict frozen over lakes wth bouncing children, locks of hair flying from beneath their woollen hats.

But it's one at the back, obviously moved there from the belief it was going to be unpopular that catches Margarethe's eye. The man was old, with a pearl grey beard reaching to the middle of his chest. A golden undershirt and red trousers ballooning into heavy black boots. The golden shirt has a pattern embroidered along the bottom in repeated swirls contained within a border top and bottom. The bodice seems to hint at repeated circles that run up beneath the horn tied at his waist and his mighty beard. On his shoulders hangs a teal cloak with a fur collar and cuffs made from a fairly dark creature. On the elbows lies a different embroidered pattern, hearts, once again enclosed within two parallel borders. The German Father Christmas carries a tree over one shoulder and a satchel on the other. Is face was crumbled into a frown so it was really no surprise that the KaDeWe felt the design wouldn't sell, it was hardly celebrating Christmas but the humanity presented by the man who was being forced to dress up in every little village of Germany to bring Saint Nicholas alive and was in the process beginning to destroy the real value of Christmas in the minds of the children, was clearly represented. But on a more personal basis she thought of the comments she could on the back to tease a potential husband. Because in the end that was the kind of relationship, if she had one, that she wanted, one which was based on friendship and having a laugh. She would write about the likeness of him she saw in the depicted man.

The chiming of the nearby clock makes her grumble inwardly and she skuttles for the stairs.

The back stairs were always quicker, if harder on the feet and she strides for those, neatly avoiding the rush of bodies to the dress department.

A gentleman stands alone looking confused as she enters her department. All her girls were busy, so she quickly places the boxes on the counter and hurries to him. He tries to brush her off, in German which was quite frankly worse than the American lady's downstairs. She really very rarely used her French at work so it was with some trepidation that for the second time that day she brought those words to her tongue and then felt them fall into the atmosphere to breathe.

The finely dressed man, who Margarethe reckoned was well into his thirties seems adamant about what he wants but nothing seems to make his face light up how she wanted.

She does then, what she always does when she is not faced with the client before her, she asks for descriptions. He gives them and an extraordinary thing happens. He describes perfectly the lady she had met downstairs, his wife is even American. She very almost splutters into laughter and announces she knows the very woman and exactly what would work. But she refrains herself remembering his mention of having left her asleep at the hotel they were staying at. Obviously she had snuck out on a similar mission to her husband.

Margarethe found it all excessively endearing. She couldn't stop imagining them sneaking behind each other's backs, leaving notes on pillows and kissing cheeks. She even imagined them, despite their rank to be a couple whom slept together. She only wished her own father had been a more decent Englishman. But she supposed that wasn't to be expected, her mother was only an actress, she was fair game and honestly she wouldn't have the job she did now if it wasn't for the money he sent. She'd met him once when she was a young girl and she remembers how he'd greeted her mother, with a warm kiss, it was almost as if he had some regard for her, for those few short weeks they had been the perfect family. She knew her mother shared much correspondence with him and they were ultimately still friends.

She half skips to the boxes she'd brought up, remembering the blue gown that would so perfectly match the American woman's eyes. As she does so her thoughts drift to that greeting, her father standing on the doorstep and her mother announcing his name to the heavens: 'James.' She remembers how he'd talked of her half-brother Patrick and how he hoped he would one day be the Earl of Grantham. He said this was to happen because his cousin, who was ten years his junior, had only managed to have two daughters at that time. She'd been shown paintings and it had all been very surreal. The gigantic castle with the turrets at the corners, the huge oak doors with the brass knocker. She'd been saving up for years in the hope that one day she could afford a trip to England to visit the grand abode of her father's family. In fact by the time she made it there she imagined her half-brother would be the heir, perhaps even the Earl as James had written a few years ago to say that indeed Robert (his cousin) had fathered no sons.

"Voila!" The sky blue gown falls over her arms, and she sees his gasp then, the soft 'o' that crinkles his lips. She chuckles at his face as he reaches for his pocket nodding in agreement to her replacing the gown in the box.

It's when he's handing her the array of coins and notes that she spots her. The slim figure, the woman she had met downstairs and she supposed was this gentleman's wife. She seems to start upon walking into the department and immediately turns tail, scurrying in a little circle before diving behind the mannequins of cream nightwear that flank the door. Margarethe suppressed her chuckle she didn't want to ruin the adventure these two lovebirds seemed to be having.

The gentleman leaves, a certain spring in his step and she follows, slipping in tidily behind the doorway, waiting for the appearance of the American lady.

She can hear the four deep breaths the woman takes as the gentleman whom Margarethe was ninety-nine percent convinced was her husband descends the stairs. Her slow steady exhales seem to mirror the rhythm of his feet as Margarethe finds herself tapping her foot lightly to the beat.

She seems to finally build up a semblance of courage and the wide rim of the white hat peers around the frame. But she wasn't as confident as her dress, or her poised posture suggested. Her hands twist together over the handle of her bag. Margarethe decides she ought to put her at ease, perhaps she was concerned over what her husband had purchased for her, or perhaps it was concerns about what she was to choose.

"We meet again! What can I do for you?" She looks up somewhat startled, her eyes blinking as if adjusting to a sudden bright light. She dimly realises she had used the English her father had also paid for her to be taught, no doubt this had confused the lady. Indeed it had made her own brain start at the realisation, it was a wonder she could remember it. But her customer seems to recognise her and quickly asks for what she wants.

"I'm looking for a dressing gown, for my husband." She finally uncoils her fingers but her hand immediately flits to her neck, pushing loose pieces of hair back beneath her hat.

She still seemed uneasy and even more so as Margarethe leads her to the rails of dressing gowns. She seemed to look around, inspecting the other girls Margarethe had employed in her department. She got the distinct feeling that the woman was nervous about buying for her husband, that somehow she was being judged.

"And I believe the gentleman I just served was the said husband?" The lady laughs, but she still glances around worryingly.

"Yes. You noticed me hiding then?" Margarethe only confirms that she had and thankfully her companion seems to relax a little.

Her cerulean eyes finally settle on the gowns she was being shown. Some had high collars that were folded down to the front, the trimming present to the very base of the fabric often in a contrasting shade, but the shopper admits he has a lot of this design; Margarethe could see why, the style was one she would pick for the man. Others are thin, and clearly belong to the summer weather with nonexistent variations of colour and not even a lightly patterned fabric to choose from. She discards those too and then flicks her fingers over some others pulling two out from the rail.

One is similar to the style she had first rejected: high, soft lapel, dropping clean to the floor. The other is in a darker shade, a black she would say, but she frowns, shaking her head softly.

"Robert prefers brown and navy." She ignores the slip of names, people never used the first names of their family to a saleswoman, it was just the way it was. It proved how distracted she was, how occupied her mind was with finding what she wanted.

Margarethe studies the gentle pinches she is making to her lips and whisks passed her, calling 'one moment.' It seems those boxes she brought up earlier were going to sell before they met the rail.

It's only as she's tipping lids off and admiring lace and ruffles rather than the firmer fabrics on men's clothes that she realises the significance of the name, Robert. She'd definitely said Robert. Could this woman be the wife that hadn't had the sons? Was her father's cousin the man she had just served?

She tries to banish the idea, she tries to stop the gentle hum of the name in the back of her throat. The echo of her identity, her family, possibly being stood directly before her. She'd never wanted that life they had, as many people in her position may have wished. She appreciated the life she had been given by her father, he could have abandoned her instead he'd given her a lifeline, an opportunity that meant she avoided prostitution. But that didn't mean she wasn't interested in what life over the ocean held; that she didn't want to know who her family were.

Her customer finally decides upon the turquoise style she finds. It's full length and made of a sturdy but soft fabric, the edge lined with a golden trim. The stripes that run along the fabric are almost imperceptible, but the soft bronze runs through the tightly woven blue and the lady seems impressed as she slides her fingers over it.

Margarethe can't help watching her, observing the curves and angles of her face. The tilt of her hat as she makes her decision. And the gentle way she opens her purse to find the money required. She takes out her earlier purchase also, and Margarethe spies, alongside the box with the teddy bear, the card she herself had spotted, with the German Father Christmas. She takes a deep breath, it couldn't hurt, could it? To ask, to inquire about whom she was. Whether indeed her husband was her own father's cousin. Whether in fact, she was a cousin of this lady's very children.

"You live in England despite being American?"

"Yes in Yorkshire which is in the north. My husband, the man you served earlier is British so I moved when I married." Yorkshire. They lived in Yorkshire. What were the chances of there being another 'Robert' living on a fine estate, in Yorkshire? She realises dimly she must have made a strange face, or blushed because the lady, very probably a Countess stares at her strangely.

"I'm sorry, it's only...you say you live in Yorkshire. And my father, he actually lives there...I'm illegitimate you see and-"

"He was a wealthy man to have travelled here in his youth so you think I may know him?"

"I'm actually sure you do Madame. I believe he may be your husband's cousin. James. Mr James Crawley." Her response is the opposite of what she expects. She thought she'd turn and run, instead she smiles. She truly smiles. Her own heart begins to slow, finally relaxing.

"Yes. You've made the connection correctly but how did you-"

"You let your husband's name slip earlier and well you're American, I knew the current Countess of Grantham is an American and the names seem to work." She shrugs silently, focusing entirely upon her work, making sure the turquoise is folded as neatly as possible into the box, keeping the tissue wrapping pristine and without rips.

"Well, well, you know far more of me than I know of you. I am indeed the Countess of Grantham." She hands her the money, her richly gloved hands making her own rather rough ones feel inadequate. The leather was cold to the touch but somehow exuded warmth, a well thought out style for the winter which suggested a heat beneath the fabric that could only be pleasant to the wearer. Or maybe it was just the heat that ran in her bones, the adrenaline that told her something she really had never thought she'd wanted to know. She had cousins, she had family. It had always been just her and her mother and she had thought she'd accepted that, but maybe not. Maybe, maybe she had always strived to want to know more of her other family. Maybe that was why she'd always saved, dreaming of a trip to England. "Perhaps we should share correspondence. Write to me, I'm assuming you know the address?"

She knows her face falls blank, her mouth opening and closing like a puppet, no words drifting into the air. The younger woman just watches her.

"I mean it Margarethe. James won't live forever. You'll need support when that time comes. Besides you are my daughters' cousin." She wafts from the counter but not with any kind of superiority, or indeed a sense of being better then her. The Countess had a certain air about her to be sure but Margarethe was quickly coming to the conclusion it was a poor representation of the woman beneath the falsehoods. She been brought up to play a part, she played it very well, but it wasn't her.

"Ma'am! Your Ladyship?!" She refuses to see the blank looks of the girls around her, they didn't follow the English and for once she was pleased they couldn't, she was breaking a great many rules with what she'd just agreed to. The young woman swivels on her heels, her purchase stuck awkwardly in front of her as she attempted to balance it. "You won't tell anyone. I mean, my position is-"

"Your secret is safe with me. Although I dearly hope you don't mind me telling my husband?" Margarethe chuckles and the grand Countess before her does so too. It was odd, so very odd to laugh with a customer. It was such a simple emotion, so pure and yet, it was banned- not in writing but in its concept, work wasn't designed for a good time.

Her body seems to deflate and fall flat, her corset pulling a the ribs when Lady Grantham disappears, the gentle clipping of her heels on the stairs the last sound that rings about the room. She busies herself immediately, refolding or hanging the garments she'd had down. She certainly ignores the chattering of the young girls around her. She smooths her hands anxiously over her skirt every so often, the buzzing that ran through her body seemed to migrate to her nails where it needed an outlet.

The morning passes quickly and she finds herself rushing into the bakery over the road to grab a quick bit of lunch before her stomach even tumbles in need of it, which was strange, usually her body was miles ahead of the time.

On a return she wonders over what she might write to the grand lady over the sea, what the Countess of Grantham would actually be interested in that was going on in her life. She didn't think she could think of anything enticing. But she would write nonetheless in a week or so, in time for Christmas. Perhaps she could even purchase one of the fancy cards from the department downstairs and wish her a truly enjoyable Christmas. They were her family after all, and Christmas was a time for family.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England. Christmas Day 1907.**

Christmas Day. Christmas morning, and he still hasn't told her. Her fingers splay on his chest, slowly and comfortingly. They rise and fall with the inflations of his chest. They were cold, her hands, as they study the joining of his muscles. But it wasn't that physical cold he felt, it was the internal chill of his lies that is painful.

She thought her fingers might coax him out of the dark place she could feel he was in. It had been the same since she'd cried in his embrace a week ago. He wanted to tell her something then but Sybil had cut him off. She hadn't pestered for the knowledge she didn't know, he would tell her, if and when he was ready. There was a pattern she had noticed to his moments of the deepest reluctance and the longest periods of brooding. It was always after they made love, after he'd given in to her murmurs and kisses.

The gentle shift of her legs beside his own makes him prickle. It was early for sure, and Cora had already enjoying the excitement she always felt on Christmas morning; 'this year more than any other, for the girls are unlikely to disturb us.' That's what she'd said with her eyes shining and he'd let her have her way because he did so enjoy it, being one with her: hearing the pleasure she gets from him. It had all been well and good but then the black cloud that hung above had descended enveloping him in the horrors of his lies. He curls his fingers harder over her waist trying desperately to anchor her to him.

"You're worried about the baby thing aren't you?" The harsh gripping of her hip had told her all she needed to know. He was trying desperately to clutch her closer, he had done that only a few times before, namely in the two weeks he'd had as leave twice from the front six years ago. She was his anchor and it seemed he was terrified of losing her. Did he think that she was starting to blame him for the lack of a pregnancy? Or did the problem lay somewhat deeper than that?

"Yes and no. I know things you don't. I've kept things from you." He stares unblinking at the canopy of the bed trying so desperately to find the words that would make this sound better. But there were none. The outcome would be the same whichever route he chose, Christmas Day would be full of silence, Cora would spend the time fighting away the tears.

She doesn't move, she doesn't want to. Not because his words, or rather the ones he was trying to find, pained her. It was more because she'd known. Ever since her dear Mama had dropped the conversation so quickly the other week when she had been convinced her Mama would never let up about it. She'd had an inkling then that all was not as she and Violet saw. There was a factor they had missed. And Robert was that factor.

"Robert. I don't think you've kept anything from me. It was the injury wasn't it? And I suppose they told you there was still a chance, if a very tiny one." He marvels often about Cora. But none more so than now, she had worked this out. She knew him so well that's he had uncovered the truth. He pulls her closer, burying his nose firmly in her hair and inhaling the scent that was pure Cora.

"I'm sorry." She doesn't look at him, staring unblinking at the curtains. She can see the snow swirling just beyond one of them, the slither of light casting an unwavering line on the carpet. She'd known she supposed for some time, for a year or two maybe. When it hadn't happened she'd tried to bury the prospect that something was wrong with one of them. She'd seen a doctor- Doctor Ryder- and he'd confirmed there was nothing wrong with her. He'd pressed to see Robert, but she had never mentioned it, there didn't seem a need, she hadn't thought at that time that maybe something had happened. It had only clicked into place the other morning when she'd buffered together Violet's strange behaviour and then Robert wanting to tell her something.

"I'm the one that's sorry, for not making you confident enough in yourself to tell me. To begin with I understand how on edge you were, it took us some time to reestablish the relationship we'd had. But in the last four years I must have treated you badly if you decided not to tell me."

"You haven't. I was just a fool thinking you would turn me away, labelled as inadequate." She doesn't want to laugh, it was those kind of things that upset him most. So quite simply, she doesn't. She chews her lip and turns her face into his shoulder rubbing gently. His skin is steaming, and she pushes the covers from their bodies, letting her thumb trail over the sphere of sweat that had settled on his belly button.

"How could I label this as inadequate? Lying entirely naked in these muscular arms on Christmas morning?" Her fingers always made him shimmer with a stupid boyish excitement and the grin he can feel against her shoulder settles his nerves, she truly wasn't going to turn him away. His own gentle hum of approval makes her press her lips once to the curve of his shoulder before they lie quietly, fingers wrapped together on her hip.

His fingers always felt wonderful when they curled between her own. It was partly that they were always warm and hers, however hard she tried, remained cold. She thought that it was more down to the texture of his skin though. The harder joins between his digits, the easily traceable groves that scattered the inside of his palm. The lumps that his knuckles made on the bridge of his hand and the ways in which her fingers fitted so easily between them. She always thought his thumb was an anchor, laid over her own and keeping it firmly in place, protected from the raging of the waves and the beatings of the world around them. He used to clutch her hand a lot when she'd been pregnant, and when they were abroad he always renewed the habit thinking she was terrified of foreigners. It was a comfort to her, anywhere, any time, to feel those indentations pressed to her own. To feel the less delicate skin of his palm as one with her softer layers.

"I've got something for you." He'd forgotten, too busy letting his mind wander to the wonders of having Cora so near, of experiencing the gentle hum of the humid atmosphere surrounding them. He felt in his more mature years that their love making left a satisfying hue that years ago had always just seemed like an invitation for more. Now, now it was a pleasant stifling sensation that made him hold her so very close.

The present was in his dressing room, but reluctantly untangling himself began and ended with Cora mumbling about him, 'surely being able to wait.'

The gift was quite clearly in a fancy gift box beneath the layer of shimmering pastel pink paper he had used. She knew immediately that it had come from the KaDeWe and more specifically Margarethe (whom she and Robert had since discussed and even sent a card to, following the one that had arrived for them). It's the grin on his face that really captivates her though, he truly looks like a boy on Christmas morning as he places the present before her, an expectant expression plastered between his cheeks. "I hope you like it. And despite what it is, I love you for so much, it's more a symbol of the time we spend alone than anything else."

"How about you let me open it first!" He chuckles slipping back between the sheets beside her. He coaxes her gently into his lap, keeping his arms wound around her hips. She leans into him, the juts of her spine pressing down the length of his chest. Her tangled hair tickles at his shoulder, the bow tied at the bottom pressed at his nipple. His nose rests behind her ear as he watches over her creamy shoulder as the paper falls limp beneath her fingers. She pauses, and he spies the red hue that seems to mask her cheeks and she quickly pulls the bedding around to cover her breasts.

"Did you think I was looking?"

"I know you were." Her gaze stays fixed firmly on her lap but Robert doesn't laugh at her, her youthful innocence, that seemed appear at the strangest moments, really did infuse him.

"And if I was?"

"Well...I mean-" She feels the heat rush deeper into her cheeks, spreading to the backs of her eyes, making them sting. It really shouldn't be a problem. They'd been married for goodness knows how long but it was odd somehow for him to look at her so earnestly when they weren't being intimate. She found it unsettling as it was against their usual way of things. He never gawped, not even particularly when they lay together.

"I wasn't looking. But if I had been you'd know I think you entirely beautiful. I should hope you know that anyway." He pushes her neck with his face and she tilts it willingly allowing him the pleasure of seeing her warm blush has spread to her neck. He kisses her gently on the pounding of her life that hovers just below the skin of her neck. "You need to open that. We'll have to get up in an hour or so and I want to have a little more rest before then."

The pristine apricot box is tied with a honey yellow silk ribbon, about two inches in diameter. She tugs only minimally and it falls flat from its bundle. She turfs the lid to one side to reveal the white tissue that wrapped the garment she quickly discovers is light blue. She immediately thinks that maybe she is wrong, and that he hasn't brought her a nightgown, but as she touches the fabric she knows he has. The texture is slightly rough where the bodice is that is currently face up towards her. She unfolds it, letting the garment fall between her hands. The rougher, transparent fabric continues down the centre of the full length gown; flanked on either side by silk. There's a certain amount of fancy lace on the bodice of the sheer fabric and she traces her finger over the swirls of flowers and leaves.

He watches as she admires it. But his mind is more occupied by watching her gaze and seeing when she'll spot the postcard he'd nestled into the base of the box. He'd almost taped it onto the gift he'd placed for her beneath the tree but then he'd changed his mind not wanting his mother or the girls to catch site of unusual design and the words he'd inked on the back. His thoughts had distracted him more than he had realised and he is brought sharply back to reality by Cora's gasp.

"No!" She turns the piece of card over and back three times. Of all those designs he'd chosen this one, the same one as she herself had attached to his present at an ungodly hour the other morning.

"What?" She twists in his lap, careful not to let all her weight rest in one place.

"Come with me!" It was she that now looked like a five year old on Christmas morning. She slips from the bed, and races around the bedpost. She takes his hand firmly and pulls him from the room, not letting him go back and fetch his slippers.

He lets his hand slip from hers as she skips down the stairs, missing every other step in a fashion that he can't keep up with.

He watches from the fourth step as she begins scrambling like a dog looking for a bone beneath the tree.

He's surprised how different it looks in the misty air of the morning with the lights off. The usually startling sage green of the tree is less noticeable; the hazels and golds that hang at the back of the branches far more obvious against the blacks and greys that teamed from the nearest branches in the eerie hall.

Her head reappears as he comes to stand nearby, her cheeks slightly flushed and her eyes twinkling. Abandoned on the floor is the card she'd just unwrapped upstairs, clutched in her arms is a large box on which her fingers are tracing the piece of card stuck to the top.

"Seems our thoughts tended in a similar direction when we were in Berlin." She couldn't believe that the jokes and teases she had thought up had also resurrected themselves in Robert's mind.

"You mean to say we've both decided I'm a decrepit old man." His hands pry hers from the label, lifting the finely wrapped, bright red box into his arms. She lets her hand snake beneath the hem of his pyjama shirt as they stand there in the morning glow looking very much like Father Christmas and his wife just off to bed after a tiresome night.

"Not decrepit, no." Her palm presses to the skin between the folds of his back. Caressing slowly as they ascend the stairs together. He remembers the first time they'd done this, on their wedding night they'd walked side by side to the room on the far side of the house to spend their first night together, not that it was actually officially their first night together, but it was her first night as Lady Downton. She'd been as beautiful then as she was now. The sun lit her chocolate curls on this morning as the candles had done then. Her outfit is cream and flowing just as it had been white and seamless before.

It was true that the exterior of the image was almost the same but the interior was much altered. They'd grown together since then. They now had three daughters. He'd fought a war; she had fought his mother. Both there father's had died. They were no longer the centre piece of life, so much more came before these moments and that made them so special.

She turns the image over, reading the swirls of his lettering, not that swirls was really the correct word, it was more a sprawl, but she loved it all the same and recognised it as his, always his. It had been the handwriting that had kept her limbs moving though those unfortunate months of his long absence. His Christmas message was short and sweet. A promise to love her always and a cheeky declaration that he was sure 'you think me nothing like the man on the reverse, otherwise she must have very bad taste in the men you like in your bed.'

"You can see why you had to open that up here." He's on the covers beside her, observing her cerulean eyes as they scan the page again, checking indeed that she had read his meaning correctly. Her eyes had always been soft but piercing, always on the edge of hardening into a stare that Robert was weary of. He flips his own bearded man away from him, finding Cora's far more elegant swirl etched upon the reverse. It was her capital letters and the tails of her lower case letters he admired the most, the unforced curves she managed to create were stunning. But the subtleties of her writing had been memorised by him on dark nights in camps where he couldn't sleep for fear, cold, hunger, nightmares or often all four. He finds the almost imperceptible flicks on the crosses to her 't'. The slightly thicker side of the body of the 'a' where she had traced the ink twice. And it was those things he admired now, as he read.

 _Robert,_

 _Merry Christmas my darling!_

 _Another year gone, another mountain full of memories to store. Berlin was superb. Sublime. To be with just you, and experience the sensations of first love and honeymoon despite how long past those events really were, was truly gorgeous. But I fear that would make you think I love you for little but your money and your kisses. I hope you know I don't, I will love you, the true you whom often hides away beneath the folds of your favourite suits, until and beyond you grow as old as the fellow on the reverse._

 _Let's hope the new year beings even more chances to celebrate together._

 _All my love,_

 _Your Cora._

She doesn't really watch him as he reads focusing her attention instead on the bright light that beckons from the further side of the window. It had actually been a few years since they'd had a truly White Christmas, with snow falling on the very day. But it seemed this year was to make up for that. She opens the curtains and stares at the white spirals for a second. They duck and dive passed each other, coming together and then moving apart. It's like a dance, a very complicated dance that involves the whole world, not just a singular couple alongside other similar couples. Every flake interacts with all those around it. She hurries back to the bed as she feels the warmth behind her calling her away from the stinging cold that was now seeping from the window, where it had been contained, into the expansive room. And yet, she couldn't, she really couldn't draw the fabric and shut out the biggest symbol of a Downton Christmas.

He admires her, framed in the window. Her words were so very true, every little memory was significant; the balls, the girls first dances, Violet getting caught up in all sorts of village gossip but it was the memories that they managed to scrounge out of the busy days that really meant a great deal. This Christmas morning for instance, together, alone and it was well after seven. The last time that had happened was on their very first Christmas together when there had been no little ones. Not that Cora had been entirely comfortable when she was experiencing the delights of being eight months pregnant with a very large Mary. He chuckles at the memory, waking to find her thrashing beside him and the look he'd received when he'd opened his mouth to wish her a Happy Christmas. He'd been told quite simply that it wasn't going to be merry seeing as he'd got her in this state and she couldn't even drink nor could she sit down for an hour without needing the toilet. He chuckles softly as she slides back under the sheets beside him, her toes rubbing by his knees.

"What's so funny?"

"I was thinking about the first words that exited your little mouth on our first Christmas."

"I was very uncomfortable. Besides if I remember correctly it worked in your favour. Your methods to lessen the pain were quite effective. But, back to this Christmas morning. You need to open your gift." The paper falls off beneath his fingers easily enough, but when he spies the apricot box that could not remind him of anything but the nightwear department at the KaDeWe. The question is, when had she purchased this? He'd been with her the whole time they'd been in the store.

"When...?"

"That morning when you got up early and left me. I followed in a taxi and did my shopping too. It's when I found out about Margarethe." She laughs at his expression, his head shaking gently from side to side in awe of her. He peels the lid off the box, spreading the gown flat before him. She can't tell if he likes it though as he just stares, stroking the fabric between his fingers.

"You like it?" He wonders at her doubt before tugging her swiftly into his embrace. His fingers settle on the far side of her waist, finding the jut of her hip and bundling the fabric below his grip into his palm allowing his thumb to slip onto the warm grooves that protect the bones.

"I like it exceptionally. And I suppose our dear Margarethe helped you choose it." Cora laughs, not only from his clever deductions but the gentle squirming of his fingers on her skin.

"She did. But it was, much like your reasoning for my gift, to remind you of the times we spend alone and how much I love them." He pushes his gifts to the end of the bed, still clasping her waist he slips beneath the sheets peppering the side of her face with his kisses. He begins to laugh at the gentle giggles that come in waves against his neck. But she doesn't try to free herself from his embrace. She holds fast, and that he realises is what she's always done. It's what he should have known, or rather remembered when he'd returned. She was his rock, the constant, the anchor. She would let him circle around her and do his own thing but she never let him go. And goodness he certainly didn't want to let her go, not now or ever.


End file.
